Flashing before your eyes
by Anne Phoenix
Summary: SCORPIA RISING SPOILER in last chapter! ** Collection of all my Flash Rider fics that are rated under NC-17 - stories will be uploaded here after posting on the Flash Rider community! Range of ratings, characters and emotions.
1. October 2009: Splatter

**COLLECTION OF MY WRITINGS FOR THE FLASH RIDER CHALLENGE COMMUNITY ON LIVEJOURNAL. **

In case you don't know how it works: there is a monthly prompt and we all write down the first thing that comes to mind in 1000 words or less. Come and join in – it's always good fun and a great way to connect with other Alex Rider fens.

Title: Splatter  
Author: Anne Phoenix  
Rating: PG  
Summary: Alex's missions are taking their toll on his sanity …  
Word Count: 1000  
Warning: None  
Author's Note: Written for the Flash Rider community's fourth challenge prompt, "Splatter". Beta read by hpstrangelove - any remaining mistakes are mine!

Disclaimer: Any mention of 'Stormbreaker', 'Alex Rider', any associated entities, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976, and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material. All Alex Rider characters belong to Anthony Horowitz. No monetary profit made on this story. 

**Splatter**

"A flower."

_A blossom of blood, seeping, spreading …_

"A butterfly."

_A falling man, plummeting through the clouds, twisting round, down, down, to his gruesome death … _

"A rabbit."

_Gargoyle, gargoyle, jumping from the page, teeth bared, terrifying, kill, kill, kill … _Alex gasped and shook his head to make the gargoyle go away. It went quietly ... for now ...

Dr. Merriman paused, put down the card and pressed his fingers together, watching Alex carefully. "Are you sure, Alex? You see a rabbit?"

Alex didn't answer. He kept his eyes cast down, too scared to look at the card again, in case the gargoyle came back.

"Okay, then," Dr. Merriman sighed. "We'll get back to that one."

Alex felt his fear drain away as Dr. Merriman put the card away. The gargoyle was gone. Then a new card was presented, the splatter of ink symmetrical, confusing, somehow terrifying … "I don't know."

"Just try. Do you want to hold the card?"

"No. It doesn't look like anything."

"Here, let me turn it round. What about now?"

_Yes! Blood! Splattered on the floor, on the walls … a knife sticking in the dead lump of a corpse. Life, draining away, so much blood … _

"A cake. Birthday cake. With a candle. And … custard."

"Show me the cake, Alex."

Alex gestured vaguely at the lump, the corpse … "There. And here's the candle." _The knife, sharp serrated edge, cutting through flesh, killing, killing … _He shivered and drew back. "I don't want to look at it any more."

"Take the card, Alex."

"No. Don't want to touch it."

"It's only a cake, Alex."

Alex was looking down again. He couldn't face the sight. _Too much blood, every where, dripping from the walls._ "Give me a different one."

Dr. Merriman sighed deeply. "I think we should discuss this one first."

Alex twitched angrily. He wanted to tell the stupid man to just move on. They were wasting time. They could be looking at the next picture already! "Here, cake." Alex waved at the lump again, looking through, rather than at, the card. "And look, candle … and custard. Loads of custard. It's everywhere … "

"Do you like custard?"

Alex shrugged, but he felt his breathing accelerate again. _It wasn't custard! Stupid man couldn't see it was blood!_ He bit his lip nervously. "It's okay." _Creamy, thick, coppery, red … _

"Take the card, please," Dr. Merriman said again and this time Alex snatched it from his hands. He held it carefully, not wanting to get his hands in the blood. "Well done, Alex. Many people see an animal skin, like a rug. Can you see that?"

"No. It's a cake," Alex answered without looking at the card.

"You can turn it around if you like."

Alex put the card back on the table. "It's a cake," he repeated firmly.

Dr. Merriman exhaled slowly and it sounded like the long suffering sigh of a man who had been stuck at the exact same place a thousand times and still had found no way through. "I think you're lying, Alex. I can help you, but I need to know what's going on inside. Please, just tell me what you really see."

Alex gritted his teeth. He did actually want to tell Dr. Merriman about the corpse and the knife and the blood and the death, but he didn't know what words to use or how to start or—

It was with horror that he realised his eyes were welling up. He squeezed them shut to stem the tears, wondered why he was sweating, wanted to get up and run, run, run. "I don't want to do this any more," he said, fighting to keep his voice as calm as possible.

Dr. Merriman shrugged. "It might help you to talk about it?"

Talk about the blood? Talk about death? _Gunshots, bombs, bullets, pain, pain, pain ..._ It took all of Alex's strength to stop himself from crying out with the horror of the remembered pain and fear. "Maybe next time," Alex said. _Probably never. _

*******

"Well?"

"It's borderline. His emotional responses are becoming more and more uncontrolled."

"Is there anything we can give him for that?"

"Time?"

Blunt laughed. "We don't have time. I need him back in the field tomorrow. "

"I suppose ... maybe a low dose of Valium. Just to counteract the constant physiological arousal. But really, some time off would be better."

"I just need him to be functional enough to not self-destruct."

Dr. Merriman looked uncomfortable. "It's heading that way, sir. It's getting worse after every mission. Even a few days, preferably weeks, break between missions would do him a world of good."

Blunt laughed again. It wasn't a pleasant laugh. "He's growing older every day. His greatest asset is his age. We need to make the best use of him while we can."

"His greatest weakness is also his age," Dr. Merriman warned. "His body is still growing, his mind is still learning. If you don't look after him a bit more then ..." he trailed off.

"Codswallop. He's fine. His performance on missions is stellar. He does as he's told, fixes problems, leaves no witnesses. Perfect."

Dr. Merriman looked down at the splatter of ink on the card in his hand. He too could see death and destruction, but worst of all he could see the careful shredding away of Alex Rider's mental stability. There, lying in tatters, black on white ...

**THE END  
October 2009**


	2. November 2009: Scars

Title: Frisson: Scars  
Author: Anne Phoenix  
Rating: PG  
Summary: " ... for a few precious hours his damaged skin had been the object of reverence."  
Word Count: 700  
Warning: None  
Author's Note: Written for the Flash Rider community's fifth challenge prompt, "Scars" & part of the Frisson series (available on the Archive as the rating is too high for fanfiction net). Beta read hpstrangelove - any remaining mistakes are mine!

Disclaimer: Any mention of 'Stormbreaker', 'Alex Rider', any associated entities, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976, and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material. All Alex Rider characters belong to Anthony Horowitz. No monetary profit made on this story. 

**Frisson: Scars**

Scars.

Twisted designs of pale, damaged skin.

Raised welts. Unfading memories. Pain inflicted by angry men who did not see him as a child but as an enemy to be crushed, destroyed.

_Anger, hatred … _

Alex didn't mind the scars. Not _really._ In a way he needed them as a reminder of his reality to focus his mind during missions. This was not a game; he could hurt, he could bleed … cry … die. Other people minded them, though. They made people _–nurses, doctors, Tom, Jack, Sabina – _recoil in horror, their minds incapable of imagining why a fourteen year old boy should carry such marks.

Nurses and doctors worked for MI6. They'd seen it all before.

Tom ... Alex sighed. Tom would gasp dramatically and then ask ... why, how, why, how, why, how. It was enough to drive Alex mad. He didn't need to talk about it. _Didn't want to ... _

Jack hadn't seen him unclothed for many months now. He locked the bathroom door these days, refused to go swimming, refused to get changed. Of course she had to know that his body was a battlefield. She had visited him in hospital often enough. Her eyes would go wide, full of accusation, fear, self-hatred at her inability to protect him. Alex would then have to distract her, change the subject, hide the offending scar as if denial could make the problem go away.

Sabina. Now there was a good liar. She loved Alex, or she thought she loved him. She pretended that the scars didn't bother her, pretended that her eyes weren't drawn over and over to their mottled pattern. More than anyone, she made Alex feel like a freak. Wrong, different. Sabina feared Alex, too. Feared what he had been through and what it had done to him.

Once and only once had Alex's scars genuinely elicited any expression other than revulsion, and for a few precious hours his damaged skin had been the object of reverence. Alex shivered at the memories: Yassen's hands on his body, tracing the lines of his suffering, studying them like a map that might guide him _… to where? _Alex hardly dared to think of it.

_Maybe nowhere, if the bastard's reaction to him in Prague was anything to go by. _

Yassen had left marks of his own that night, as Alex's skin had been turned into a canvas once more. It had taken days for Alex to be able to draw a breath without pain and weeks for his face to heal. His kidneys still ached. He'd dragged himself to the street, coughing blood, pissing blood, wheezing like an asthmatic whore. He'd looked so rough that even the muggers had given him a wide berth, assuming, probably quite correctly, there wasn't enough of this pathetic foreign boy left to bother with.

In all of Alex's missions, he'd never been so thoroughly, so _expertly, _beaten. Yassen hadn't just battered his body, but his pride. Alex shivered again, wondering why the experience hadn't – and a mirthless smile made him turn his lips at the thought – _scarred_ him, for want of a better word. It hadn't put him off. If anything, it had made him want more. More of Yassen's overpowering strength, more of his … _More of him._ His touch, his fingers, his cock, hi—

Alex moaned and reached down to touch himself, fingers flitting over skin that should have been smooth, should have been soft, but was forever tarnished and marked. He remembered vividly the feel of Yassen's cock against his lips, could still taste the man, salty desire mingled with blood, mingled with pain and want and need. Perhaps the damage was not just on the outside after all.

Perhaps his mind, like his body, was tarnished and marked on the inside too.

**THE END  
November 2009**


	3. January 2010: New Year

**Title: **New Year, Same Nightmare  
**Author:** Anne Phoenix  
**Rating: **R  
**Summary: **Sometimes, it's hard to keep track of time.  
**Word Count: **~ 500  
**Warning: **Implied violence and sexual violence  
**Author's Note: **Written for the Flash Rider community's sixth challenge prompt, "New Year". Thanks to kennahijja for invaluable advice!

Disclaimer: Any mention of 'Stormbreaker', 'Alex Rider', any associated entities, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976, and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material. All Alex Rider characters belong to Anthony Horowitz. No monetary profit made on this story. 

**New Year, Same Nightmare**

"Happy New Year, Alex."

_His_ breath was hot against Alex's cold skin. _Too hot_, scorching, burning. Alex shuddered and turned away, refusing to contemplate the reality behind those words. Words meant nothing, anyway. They couldn't help him; couldn't save him.

"Don't be like that, Alex," _he_ mocked. "Do you know what year it is?"

Of course he kne—

Did he?

Instinctively, Alex opened his eyes, hating himself for the weakness; the lack of control over this reflex. _He_ laughed at Alex's discomfort. "Still pretty," _he_ assured. "Still bright. Does that bother you?"

Alex hissed and squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could; scrunching up his face as though that would take him away from this place. _He_ laughed and laughed and wouldn't shut up. He never fucking shut up. Every time Alex slept, he could hear the echoes of that infernal laugh. He flinched when he felt a movement, and then fingers were digging like red-hot pokers into the side of Alex's head, holding him still, forcing his face upwards. Alex didn't need sight to know exactly what _he_ looked like – smug, lusting, cruel as the day _he_'d pried open Alex's eyes and flooded them with lye. Alex felt colder than ever. He hadn't felt warm in ... week or was it months?

"What year is it, Alex?"

"Two thousand ..." Alex croaked, wincing as air clawed like icy daggers at his scarred larynx.

The fingers on his face dug deeper and the touch hurt so much that Alex was sure they had to be breaking through his skin, leaving bleeding holes in his face. He twitched at the thought and completed his estimate. "Nine. Two thousand nine."

They were more words than he had said in weeks and Alex felt strangely proud of the achievement. His throat burnt like someone had lit a fire inside ... but at least the bastard hadn't completely destroyed him.

Not yet.

No. _Not ever._ Alex opened his eyes again, this time voluntarily. He might have lost his sight, but he still knew how to glare.

"Still pretty." _He_ sounded pleased with himself, as though privy to a joke Alex didn't understand.

And then _his_ lips – searing, painful – were on Alex's mouth. Fire seeped through the cracks of his parched lips and he couldn't stop a ragged cry from breaking free. But he didn't resist, didn't draw back. His body wouldn't_ – couldn't – _disobey. Not any more. Couldn't do anything but comply and bend to _his_ will.

"Two thousand and ten, Alex," _he_ whispered through the grotesque kiss.

And Alex's tears burnt rivulets into his skin.

**THE END  
JANUARY 2010**


	4. June 2010: And Even in Our Sleep

Title: And Even in Our Sleep

Author: Anne Phoenix  
Pairing(s): Alex/?  
Rating: R  
Word Count: 900  
Summary: _"Tom must never know about such things. About Alex on his knees, begging for his life, pleading and crying as the gun was pressed against his head."_  
Warning(s): Sexual violence  
Author's Notes: Written for the Flash Rider community's seventh challenge prompt, "And even in our sleep". Thanks to kennahijja for beta reading!

Disclaimer: All Alex Rider characters herein are the property of Anthony Horowitz and the Penguin Group. No copyright infringement is intended. 

**And Even in Our Sleep**

Plump raindrops, ripe with the promise of spring, ran down the window.

One raindrop, two ... the shower seemed to be easing off ... three raindrops, four. Alex only counted the ones between the fleck of bird poo and the dusty smudge on the glass. Those markers were his goalposts.

Five, six, seven. He leaned back, twisting his neck with a satisfying crack before turning back to listen to the geography teacher's droning monologue. Something, something, French Revolution, something, something. It was mind-numbingly boring and a far cry from where Alex had been this exact time last week, chasing a drug lord through the streets of Manchester on a stolen—no, _requisitioned _BMW F650.

Alex yawned. The room was warm. Too warm. The teacher's voice was lulling, just like the drone of the engine of the small plane he'd had to hijack to follow a fleeing terrorist across the Wiltshire countryside only a few days ago.

Eight, nine, ten, hundred, thousand ... He yawned again. Beside him, Tom had long given up and had laid his head down on folded arms. While he wasn't quite snoring, his breathing had evened and deepened in sleep. Alex smiled fondly.

One thousand, two thousand, fourteenth of July, Bastille, seventeen hundred something something. Oh yes, prison. Alex had been in prison. Sort of. He'd been imprisoned. Quite a few times. And not long ago, he'd been on his knees, sitting back on tingling legs, freedom stolen by biting metal cuffs, defiance stolen by a beating that had left him black and blue for weeks. That had been in a prison. Three thousand, four thousand ... Alex glanced at Tom and was relieved to find him still sleeping, still peaceful.

Tom must never know about such things. About Alex on his knees, begging for his life, pleading and crying as the gun was pressed against his head. Cold metal, making him lose his mind, stroking his face like the icy fingers of death. Tears like fat raindrops that just kept coming and coming, burning as they fell like acid from his eyes. The barrel of the Grach tracing the contour of his lips while fingers clawed at him from behind, twisted in his hair, yanked him back with unforgiveable force ...

A halfway press of the trigger engaged the automatic cocking mechanism as the iron dug into his throat, resting on his pulse as though it took comfort in the terror of its young victim. He couldn't see his attacker, couldn't see anything but a greyed-out false ceiling and the shadow of the man gripping his hair, maybe the only thing still holding him upright. He couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe; couldn't feel anything but the steel touch of death on his skin. He'd gone quiet, not because he accepted his fate, but because begging had only made him weaker and now he was too weak to even try.

One, two ... At three, the deafening crack of the gunshot echoed through the room. Ears ringing, pulse jumping, pain ...

_No. _

No, pain. He hadn't been shot.

As his heart dared to start beating again he heard a laugh. He was just prey they were playing with, teasing until they were bored. He opened eyes he'd not realised he'd closed and tried to fight the sob that threatened to choke him from the inside out. And then gun was back, hot now, and carrying a faint smell that was reminiscent of a hospital or laboratory, touching his face, evaporating his tears.

_Open up, open your mouth, you will open your mouth, do it or else ... _Bruised body too battered to resist as the Grach slid between his lips, in and out, the hot metal rough against his lips, hard and unyielding. He tried to pull away as a deep thrust almost triggered his gag reflex, but there was nowhere to go. The hands in his hair were too tight, holding him steady as the gun went further down his throat. He knew he was trembling. He could hardly breathe and it felt like the gun was searing him from the inside.

And then it was gone and the hands were gone and he was cast aside like a lifeless doll, twisted and discarded on the threadbare carpet. His neck was stiff and the pain radiated all the way down his spine from being arched for so long. His mouth felt raw, skinned, and he knew the worst was yet to come.

If they had grown bored of him, they would kill him now.

If not, he knew they were going to tou—

A hand on his shoulder made him flinch and curl up on himself, his heart beating a painful tattoo – _I can't do this, I can't survive this!_ But the hand would not stop, would not give up. He was being shaken, violently, urgently.

_"Alex!"_ a familiar voice hissed. Tom!

Blinking against the rapidly dissipating memory of his dream, Alex raised his head and turned his attention back to the French Revolution. It looked like the rain had finally stopped.

**The End**  
7th July 2010


	5. JulyAugust 2010: Outsider Point of View

Title: Outsider point of view  
Author: Anne Phoenix  
Rating: PG  
Word Count: 900  
Summary: ... There's something seriously wrong with Alex Rider.  
Warning(s): None  
Author's Notes: Written for the Flash Rider community's eight challenge prompt, "Outsider point of view". In true drabble fashion this was written in one sitting. Beta reading, what beta reading?

Disclaimer: All Alex Rider characters herein are the property of Anthony Horowitz and the Penguin Group. No copyright infringement is intended. 

**Outsider point of view**

There's something seriously wrong with Alex Rider. He's definitely not stupid. As in, he's not what we now call _lower intelligence_. When he listens— that is, when he's a, actually attending classes and b, not looking out of the window lost in his thoughts, it's obvious that he understands what's being said. He has no trouble following his lessons, despite missing so many of them, and performs adequately on tests. But there's always a sense that his mind is elsewhere. More than once, I've seen his mate Tom have to call his name several times before getting a response. It's like Rider is permanently tired; exhausted, even.

What's interesting is that he can obviously look after himself. Better, perhaps, than I would have expected for a lad of his age. Even when he was younger the school bullies knew to avoid him, but then again everyone knew he had a black belt in something or other. Now that he's older, the bullies hardly even dare look his way and it's not just because of the black belt. There's a dangerous glint in his eye, like he's waiting— _hoping_ for someone to pick on him. But they rarely do. Predators don't want prey that fights back.

I'll never forget the day I was on hall duty and heard the start of a fight in the boy's toilets. Unexpectedly, I found Rider in the middle of the trouble. By the sound of it, he'd confronted three older boys, known to everyone for their violent trouble-making, in order to defend a younger child. The three boys, all several years older than Rider, rounded in on him with clenched fists and I was sure Rider was about to get thrashed for his insolence. In fact, I was ready to step in and break it up when Rider suddenly transformed from a small fair-haired schoolboy into a fighting machine. He didn't hesitate, kicking and punching, spinning like something out of a movie and landing blow after blow until the three bullies ran off. Their victim looked no less fearful when Rider casually turned to him and hissed: _"Don't ever tell anyone about this. Ever. Got that?"_

And as far as I know, he never did. That type of rumour would reach even the teacher's room. Other rumours have reached the staff room of course. Rumours that Rider was a drug addict, highly unlikely given his obvious good health and athleticism – of course, his vacant demeanour and erratic behaviour don't do much to help dissipate that type of rumour. Sometimes it's like the lights are on but no one is home. Much more feasible would be the rumour that he is a drug _dealer_, but I doubt anyone actually believes that. Rumours aside, his medical card wants us to believe he has a weak immune system, but if that's true then I'll eat my hat. His immune system, I have no doubt, is exactly right for his age and probably better than most.

No. To me it's clear what's going on and I know others have come to the same conclusion. What's interesting in Rider's case is that he has clearly developed his own coping strategies and they seem to serve him well. Where some would cause trouble to attract attention, Rider is always in the background. Even when he is in attendance, it's sometimes easy to forget he's there. He goes unnoticed and has clearly learnt the hard way how to fly under the radar.

Where some might withdraw completely, Rider has taught himself how to relate to his mates. I wonder what, if anything, they suspect. He is personable, smiling, laughing ... and yet when they're not looking, when he thinks _no one_ is looking, that facade falls away and leaves a very hollow-looking child in its stead. He frequently loses himself in his thoughts and it doesn't take a shrink to tell that they are not happy thoughts. Perhaps dark thoughts are what make him jump at sudden noises. He's always on edge, and increasingly so.

Before his uncle died, he wasn't like this. Before his uncle died there were no bruises, no injuries. Fourteen-year-old children are not that accident prone, they don't walk into walls or fall down stairs – not every week, anyway! More importantly, they don't flinch for nothing and their eyes don't look so ... _old_. Where some would take out their pain and fear on weaker pupils, Rider instead protects them. He identifies as a victim, not as an aggressor.

So the solution should be simple. There are policies, procedures...

But I've come to learn that nothing is simple where Alex Rider is concerned. Whoever is hurting him is evidently a person of power. My first report disappeared without mention and when I wrote a second I was told in no uncertain terms that if I valued my job I would let it slide. _The child is in no danger_, I was assured, _don't stick your nose into things you don't understand_.

So I watch. We all watch as he goes through life like a ghost. After every absence his injuries are worse, his expression is more drawn. Next time, I fear he won't come back.

**THE END  
24th July 2010**


	6. September 2010: Full Moon

Title: Crying for the Moon  
Author: Anne Phoenix  
Characters: Alex Rider, Fenrir Greyback  
Rating: R  
Word Count: 1000  
Summary: _"Alex arched his back and tried to buck off his attacker but it was hopeless. He was trapped and without even a blade to defend himself, he stood no chance."_  
Warning(s): Werewolves  
Author's Notes: Written for the Flash Rider community's challenge prompt, "Full Moon". 

Disclaimer: All Alex Rider characters herein are the property of Anthony Horowitz and the Penguin Group. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Full Moon**

It was utter lunacy, leaving the safety of the compound on such a night. But Alex Rider would never have been described as a paragon of sanity. He fancied himself a saviour of the people, and risk be damned, if a child was in danger then he would do his utmost to save it. The medical centre was only a mile away. Running, he could make it there and back in under twenty minutes, as long as the antibiotics were easy to find.

So they buzzed him through the airlock and let him step out into the eerily bright night. The silver dish of the moon cast long shadows from the trees and yet the undergrowth remained pitch black and impenetrable. Gripping his silver knife tightly, Alex started jogging. He could do this. He knew he could do this. He could save her.

He chose his path carefully, avoiding branches and bones, treading on grass where possible. He stayed focussed on his mission. It was too easy to let himself get paranoid. His eyes would trick him into seeing movement in his peripheral vision, his ears would fool him into mistaking the rustle of the wind through the bushes as something more sinister.

Just shadows, not shapes ... not ... Alex cried out as something struck him in the back, sending him sprawling forwards onto his hands and knees. The knife disappeared into tall grass with a dull thud. He twisted round to defend himself, but was alone.

Getting slowly to his feet, Alex remained alert to any change in his surroundings. There was no one, nothing, no ... _thing._ Abandoning his knife, he set off again, ignoring the spasm of pain running through his wrist where he'd broken his fall, ignoring the ache in his knees from its impact. He had to be over half way there; the medical centre would be in sight soon. He sped up, thinking of the little girl, crying with fever, to keep him going. She needed him, needed help, neede—

This time the blow came from the side.

All he saw was a moving black mass in the corner of his eye and then it had hit him, sent him crashing into the darkness of the bushes. A dead weight settled on his chest, crushing the air from his lungs, preventing him from moving. Alex arched his back and tried to buck off his attacker but it was hopeless. He was trapped and without even a blade to defend himself, he stood no chance. He stilled, conserving his energy for the worst, which he knew was yet to come. Sure enough, black forms were separating from the bushes, moving in on him – there might have been ten or twenty, he didn't know. All he knew was that he was hopelessly outnumbered.

The stench of blood and sweat and_ wet dog_ filled the air and when he turned his face to one side, it was met by a sniffling, wet nose.

"Let me go," he demanded, as confidently as he could, but the nose only came nearer, pressing into his neck, seeking out his pulse line. A hot touch there made him jump. A tongue, lapping up his fear like an elixir. Alex brought up his hands and pushed at matted fur that just would not be moved.

A gravelly chuckle behind him made him startle, a shiver of fear running down his spine. This was it. This was _him_.

The creature on his chest suddenly moved away, giving up its claim on his body, but Alex could only wheeze where he lay. The wet nose at his neck had also withdrawn. Only the deeply rumble of the growly laughter behind him remained. Greyback. The leader of this pack of lunatics.

"I like 'em young," the voice growled, nearer now, but standing high above Alex. "Get up, child."

Alex used the last of his strength of get to his feet. As soon as he was out of the shadows of the bushes, the world became clearer again, illuminated by the silvery glow of the full moon. Greyback stood before him on all fours, a huge lupine creature with great yellow fangs and claws as sharp as glass. Alex took an involuntary step back, though he knew his retreat was blocked by Greyback's pack. He would not die a coward, he decided, and clenched his fists, waiting for the killing blow.

Greyback padded closer. Red eyes raked up and down Alex's body while his big black nose seemed to conduct an olfactory exploration.

"Fresh meat," Greyback breathed, and Alex thought his heart might just rip out of his chest for it was beating so hard. He glanced up at the moon, knowing it would be the last thing he ever saw. A thing of mystical wonder, a _... and could it be? _

Alex wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, hardly daring to believe. But then the pack had seen it too, a black crescent creeping across the silver dish in the sky. With a united screech, the creatures dived for cover. The smallest didn't make it. They fell, screaming and writhing on the ground as their bodies twisted and transmorphed, unable to cope with the deadly shadow of the planet stealing their life force. The older and stronger creatures were not as badly affected, but taking no chances, they disappeared into the darkening surroundings.

For a split second, Alex and Greyback were trapped in each other's gaze and Alex thought for one horrifying moment that the wolf would rip out his gullet here and now, but then, with a roar of anger, Greyback retreated. "Catch you later," he promised before he disappeared.

It took Alex a moment to catch his breath, to calm his thundering heart. And then he turned ... and he ran. He didn't know how long a total lunar eclipse would last, but he should at least be able to reach the medical centre and get those damn antibiotics. He'd deal with anything else on the way back...

**The End**  
Anne Phoenix  
September 2010


	7. March 2011: Explosions and Fireworks

Story Notes:

This drabble handed itself to be on a plate after Scorpia Rising. Be still my aching heart!

-

Title: Anything  
Author: Anne Phoenix  
Characters: Alex  
Rating: PG-13  
Word Count: 160  
Summary: _I'll do anything ... _  
Warning(s): Spoilers for Scorpia Rising  
Author's Notes: For the Flash Rider prompt: "Fireworks and Explosions".

Disclaimer: All Alex Rider characters herein are the property of Anthony Horowitz and the Penguin Group. No copyright infringement is intended.

-

**Anything**

_I'll do anything ... _

And he had.

He deserved it all. Every lash, every cut, every bruise.

For bringing her here. For not seeing beyond the end of his own nose. Not sending her home, not letting her go...

More than that. He _needed_ it; relished the punishment. He leaned into his Doppelganger's cruel embrace and cried as sharp teeth broke his skin. He made no move to defend himself, his dignity. He _wanted_ to give himself ... give himself up.

_Anything. I'll do anything..._

But it hadn't made a blind bit of difference.

She still died. They killed her. An explosion that ripped through his heart with more pain than he could ever have imagined. Julius held his shaking body, laughed, kissed him mockingly while the fireworks of metal and flesh and death rained down on white sands.

_He killed her._

**THE END**  
March 2011

-


End file.
